The figure sat upon a crumbling throne, their long, silver-white hair cascading over their shoulders, pooling at their feet like strands of moonlight. Their delicate features, sharp and ethereal, might have once been mistaken for something otherworldly, but now, they were gaunt, their skin nearly translucent. Their robes, tattered and worn, clung to them like remnants of a forgotten past.
The temple around them had fallen to ruin. Stone pillars, once carved with sacred symbols, were now strangled by creeping vines. The great doors, which had once welcomed pilgrims and worshippers, stood broken, their splintered wood yawning into the wilderness beyond. Silence reigned where once there had been music, prayers, offerings.
The figure did not move. They barely breathed.
Only one thing remained.
At the foot of the throne, curled in the dust, lay an old dog. His golden coat had faded, patchy in places, rough with age. One of his ears was torn, his body covered in the scars of battles long past. His ribs pressed against his skin, and his cloudy eyes one milky white, the other still sharp watched the figure with unwavering devotion.
A faint sigh left the figure's lips, their voice brittle as dry leaves. "You should leave."
The dog's ear twitched. His tail gave a single, slow wag. He did not move.
The figure tilted their head slightly, their silver hair slipping over their shoulder. A tired smile ghosted their lips. "Stubborn creature."
Outside, the world had moved on. Their name once spoken in reverence within these walls had been forgotten. No more prayers rose to the heavens, no more offerings left at the altar. And yet, the figure remained, bound not by the faith of the masses, but by something smaller.
Something quieter.
The dog, this final worshipper, was all that tethered them to existence.
The days passed, slow and soft. The dog would rise with the morning, stretching his aching limbs, and wander through the overgrown temple gardens. He would return with whatever small gifts he could scavenge withered flowers, bones licked clean, a smooth stone carried in his mouth like a treasure. He would place them at the figure's feet with great ceremony, tail wagging waiting for silent approval.
The figure always accepted them. They reached down, their touch light as mist, and rested their fingers against the dog's head. He would close his eyes, leaning into the contact, content.
On rainy days, when water dripped through cracks in the ceiling, the dog would curl beside the throne, his body pressed close to the figure's legs. The warmth of his breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest, was the only proof that time still passed at all.
One evening, as twilight crept into the ruined temple, the figure spoke.
"What is it like?" Their voice was barely above a whisper.
The dog blinked up at them.
"To be so certain of something?"
The dog let out a quiet huff, resting his head on his paws. His tail thumped against the stone—once, twice.
The figure exhaled softly. It was answer enough.
Time passed. The seasons shifted. The dog moved slower, his steps more careful, his breaths heavier.
Then, one morning, he did not rise.
The figure knelt beside him, their fingers brushing against his side. His heartbeat, once steady and strong, was now faint.
They had been worshipped. Adored. Feared. But never had they been loved, not in this quiet, patient way. Not in a way that asked for nothing.
A god could not pray. A god could not cry.
But they could kneel.
They rested a cool hand on the dog's head, bowing their own beside his.
"You were a good dog," they whispered. Their final blessing. A quiet vow.
When the last breath left his body, the temple finally gave in, the stone crumbling to dust.
But in the wind, the sound of two sets of foot steps, walking side by side.
Together.